After the Bombs
by DeadstarBliss
Summary: After the fallout of World War III, a lost friend needs to be found.
1. Prelude

It had been one month since the beginning of the end of the world. Looting was inevitable if you wanted to survive, and he knew better than most of what a post-apocalyptic survival rate would be without some sort of small supply of pre-packaged, preserved food. It'd been two weeks since his world of organized chaos came crashing down around him. Now it was just chaos. No more communications. No phone, TV or anything of any use on the few remaining, crackly radio frequencies.

His wonderful coat now had a large tear in it, just near the bottom of his back, allowing a slightly too cool breeze to filter across his body. The pathetic excuse for a shelter that he's managed to secure does little to calm his worried mind of an attack at night from the less fortunate left to wander the wastes of London outside. The four shopping carts of looted food, tinder, lighters, blankets and a few spare clothes would probably last him a couple of months if he remained resourceful and guarded his small treasure carefully.

The reassuring weight of a standard, military issue revolver sat heavily in his jacket pocket. Over the last two weeks, he's had a mind to simply turn the gun on himself. But something always stops him. He would prefer to believe it's simply because he's too much of a coward to actually do the job, over the other possibility that shoves any other thought of giving up out of his mind. Staring down the barrel of the gun that he's practically shared for nearly five years, seems to always conjure an image of the guns other owner; lying, broken and dying on the street, under rubble, lost in the sea of other bodies. More than once, the gun has been thrown across the room in a fit of rage, fear, and frustration.

The beginnings of the sun's rays starts to shine through holes in the tiled roof above, catching free floating dust particles and forming a beam of beautiful, golden light. _Why bother?_ He thinks bitterly to himself. _Without anyone here to share it with, it may as well burn my eyes and blind me. Do me a favour, so I don't have to suffer seeing the images of utter destruction and disarray; people outside turned savages so quickly, and knowing that_ _my good friend, _best_ friend, was – IS out there!_ He turned away from the sight and puffed almost desperately on a slightly soggy, foul tasting cigarette. Both of them had made an effort to kick the habit - and they had - but right now, he feels that if he can't soothe his frayed nerves with the calming nicotine, he may well go insane.

_Why aren't you out there? Looking for him?_ He asks himself, every morning he awakes. _Because I'm a coward. But he's your best friend, your _only_ friend in this broken world!_ He winces whenever this thought comes to mind _I know! But what can I do? It's not much use if I die as well! It is far more logical to stay where it's safe. Well… as safe as you can get, here._ But then comes the final rebuttal his mind can throw at him, and there's never anything he can say in reply. _But he might not be dead. And if you don't go look for him, and save him… then he _will_ die._

Deciding that sitting around moping all morning wasn't going to get him anywhere, he got up and climbed on the unstable roof, surveying the damaged city below. If he looked far enough in to the distance, he could just make out the crumbling remains of their old home. Below, a fight broke out among those unlucky enough to survive the rain of death that fell from the sky. He looked on, completely uninterested, but for lack of anything better to do.

He can remember exactly where he was when the first bomb hit the ground. They were out at their usual Chinese take-away, it was just reaching late afternoon and the city was calm, almost humming contentedly. Contentedly that is, until the world began to end. People began screaming and running wildly down the street. Panic flooded his veins and caused him to lose his bearings in the rapidly moving crowd. Almost everyone in the street ducked in unison when a fighter jet screamed overhead. It was silent for a few seconds as everyone finally began to understand what was happening. Mere seconds before chaos broke out again; he stood and grabbed the arm of his friend, tugging him off the street and out of harm's way. Then the rain of fire and pain began to fall.

Nowhere was safe. They both agreed to find things they would need to survive. Training and logic told them both that they needed supplies, something to protect themselves with and a shelter of some sort. The bombs fell for three days and people died in the streets. Blood ran freely in the gutters and those who survived turned in to animals. On the morning of the fourth day, his friend turned to him. 'I think the bombs have stopped. There's nothing left for them to destroy. I need to go and check on my family. I need to see they're… still here.' His friend couldn't be leaving him. Not now.

'It's too dangerous! We don't know that this is all over yet.' His friend just looked at him sympathetically

'That's why I have to go see them.' With that, his friend stood, grabbed one of their stolen shotguns and a box of shotgun rounds, then left, disappearing in to the red morning light, pointedly leaving behind the military revolver beside his friend. 'I'll be back. I promise.'

'Don't go, John.'

'I have to, Sherlock.'

He never came back. It had been three weeks since his best friend had left him, and he has yet to return. Is he still looking for his family? Or has he joined the countless millions lying in the streets? _You're still too much of a coward to go and find him. What sort of a friend are you? What happened to the Great Detective, Sherlock Holmes?_ Sherlock's mind spat poisonously, at him again. "I know! What would you have me _do_?" He screamed to the burning sky. _Go find him._

He stood, the rip at the knee of his jeans tearing just a little more. He ensured the comforting weight of his military revolver was in his pocket, a packet of potato chips and some dried meat, and a lighter before setting off, leaving behind his shelter and his looted food. Hopefully, he'll find his friend quickly, bring him back to their shelter, and they'll ride out the rest of this fallout from World War III together.


	2. Chapter 1

**Heya! Before you read on I just want to mention... chances are I probably won't ever finish this. So, you can either think of the Prelude as a one shot, or read this next chapter and I'll do my best to work on it when I can.**** Year 12 is a pain and I don't have a lot of time to spend writing at the moment. **** The idea kept bugging me while I procrastinating doing work and assignments, so I just had to write it down. **

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><p>Poisonous winds blew through the burnt out husk of a city, and swollen clouds hung heavily in the air, hiding the setting sun. Two shots rang out, breaking the dead calm. Sherlock dropped to the ground while having nowhere to hide, stuck in the middle of the street like a sitting duck.<p>

"Don't shoot at me!" He shouted, taking count of windows on the buildings either side of him. Sherlock calculated that there were three positions, judging from the sound of where the shot was taken, that could hide the gunman. "I don't have any weapons," he lied "and nothing that would be worth taking!" There was silence, but it was the kind of silence that was heavy with tension. A large raindrop fell and landed on Sherlock's cheek. Since the day the bombs dropped, people have becoming even more untrusting than they used to be. It was not uncommon to hear of people being shot on sight just because they looked funny. No doubt, the person who shot at Sherlock was just someone scared out of their wits and panicking at the sight of a random person.

"Sorry." Sherlock turned on the spot, eying a half shattered window - one of the three he had picked out. The disembodied voice sounded truly remorseful, and, if Sherlock hadn't known better, tired. "It's about to rain; you'd better come inside." A few moments later, he heard the click of key in lock and hesitantly headed towards a peeling, red painted door. There was a lighter patch on the door next to the number four, that he could just make out to be a two. The number must have fallen off during the bombfall. Well, at least now he could say he had the start of an idea of where he was. It was number 42 somewhere street. Not that it mattered.

The house was dark and he could see dust motes floating gently through the air in the weak light of a gas lamp hanging from a hook on the ceiling. Sherlock pulled a face as a strange thought popped in to his head._ It would be nice to be a dust mote; so peaceful and serene, floating through the air. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I want to be a dust mote. _Shaking his head at his momentary madness, Sherlock found a hallway and headed down the dark route since there was no-one in the current room. Another gas lamp hung from a wall this time, giving the tiny kitchen a warm glow. An older man with grey hair sat at a table, head on his arms.

"Honestly, if you're going to kill me, now's your chance. Just… please. Do it quickly." The man said. Sherlock's face scrunched up as he felt he recognised the voice. "I'm tired of this shit. I'm scared 24/7. If someone else doesn't kill me first, radiation or acid rain will." Sherlock took a step forward, trying to get a better view of the face hidden in the man's arms.

"Uh… um. Hello, are you okay?" Who _was_ that? Sherlock's mind was whirring. His brilliant memory could recognise this person, he knew it, but his hard-drive was lagging a little, damaged by the bombs. The back and shoulders of the man at the table went rigid.

"I once knew a great man…" The familiar stranger breathed. Sherlock's eyes widened "and you know, in the end, he even became a _good_ one."

"L-_Lestrade_?" The man at the table twisted in his seat, staring with a bewildered expression.

"Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Why did you shoot at me?"

"What were you doing in the middle of the street without a weapon?" Sherlock pulled out John's revolver from his back pocket.

"Why did you shoot at me?"

"You lied! You do have a gun!"

"_Why_ did you shoot at me?"

"Why do you have John's gun? Where's John?" Sherlock stopped his shouting and seemed to stare off in to the middle distance. "Sherlock? Where is Doctor Watson?"

"I don't know." Sherlock whispered. He asks himself that question every morning. Finding John is his mission, and he's been travelling for three weeks. He's pretty sure he's been walking in circles, and more than once he's found himself in a dire situation involving other crazed members of his species. He's running out of bullets.

"What do you mean? Where's he gone?"

"I. Don't. Know, Lestrade. I'm looking for him. Why else do you think I'd be crazy enough to be wandering about alone out here?" Lestrade let out a world weary sigh and slumped in his chair, longingly eying the empty whiskey bottle on the table.

"Are you sure he's still even alive?" Sherlock recoiled at Lestrade's words, unable to believe they had been uttered.

"Of course he is! John's a soldier! This is his sort of environment." He kicked out a chair from under the table, silently offering it to Sherlock. Lestrade couldn't help but notice how gaunt and pale the other man looked. He knew that part of it would be due to malnourishment and his obvious worry for John. But other than that, Lestrade wondered if Sherlock was more affected by the bombs than he looked. There was a raging fire of determination in his friend's eyes; so much so, that there didn't seem to be any room for the usual glazed emptiness of witnessing a traumatic event. One perhaps, like having hundreds of small nuclear warheads dropped on such an immensely populated area like London, their home.

"This is no-one's sort of environment, Sherlock. No matter how hard you've trained or how battle hardened you are; this is the end of the world, Holmes. No one could be prepared for something like this." Sherlock simply shook his head, refusing to believe what Lestrade was telling him. That's when he knew. He knew that if Sherlock didn't continue to believe that John was out there, that John was still alive, it would be the end of the great detective. Sherlock would freak out, shut down and fade away. John was Sherlock's driving force. Lestrade decided that he wouldn't continue to try and deter Sherlock from his quest. Better to die with hope than to die in fear and alone. He knew that.

Sherlock dropped in to the offered chair with a groan, allowing his exhausted body a moment of respite. "I don't care, Lestrade. I'm going to keep searching. I know he's out there." Lestrade nodded and rubbed his tired eyes with a shaking hand.

"How long have you been outside, Sherlock?" The ex-detective inspector looks at Sherlock with a critical eye.

"Too long to be by myself." He sighs, running his long fingers over the chipped edge of the table. Sherlock stands suddenly from his seat. "As much as I would love to stay and speak with you, Lestrade, I have to go." Lestrade stands also, protesting.

"You can't go now! It's pouring with rain and pitch black outside!"

"Greg…" Sherlock starts in warning.

"You never listened to me before, Sherlock, and I don't expect you to start now. But please, as a concerned friend, take my advice; stay here tonight. I know you're concerned about John, I won't stop you from leaving tomorrow morning." It was easy to see he was getting ready to bolt; nothing could cage Sherlock if the man didn't want to be there. But, obviously something Lestrade had said won Sherlock over and the younger man sat back down in his seat quietly, head bowed against his chest and resolutely silent.

Sherlock's behaviour reminded Lestrade of the detective when he used to be in 'deducing mode' as John had dubbed it one afternoon. He found himself remembering forgotten memories about their past experiences together, most of which involved Sherlock completely humiliating Lestrade and the 'incompetent' New Scotland Yard. A brief thought of whether or not Moriarty was still alive passed through his brain before he was startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock jumping up from the table and beginning to pace the floor.

Although Sherlock's movements were quick and erratic, the bags under the unusually dull blue eyes and the slump of his shoulders told Lestrade exactly how tired his friend was. "I need to find some sort of lead to his whereabouts…" Sherlock muttered to himself. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"For the love of God, go to bed, Sherlock! You need something to eat and some sleep before you drop dead. There's a can of baked beans in the cupboard and you can have my bed for tonight." Sherlock glared warningly at him, but for the first time in all the years they've known each other, Lestrade decided to take a stand. He grabbed the can off the bench, threw it to Sherlock who clumsily caught it, and pointed towards a set of untrustworthy looking stairs. "Go. Before I have to force you." With a _humph_ Sherlock pivoted sharply on his heel and all but stomped from the room. When he was sure the coast was clear, Lestrade shook his head and collapsed back in to his chair with a sigh, resuming his previously interrupted maintenance on his rifle.

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><p><strong>Please read and review. Reviews make me happy and give me inspiration. :) Also, I seem to have caught the plague and am currently in the slow, painful process of dying - reviews will make me better.<strong> ^_^


	3. Chapter 2

**AN: Heya! I'm really sorry I haven't updated in a while. Besides having some serious Writer's Block, Year 12 is currently kicking my head in. I just finished my Grade 12 exams, so I had a few spare days to crank something out. I don't know how long it will be until I update again, but I will try.**

When Lestrade woke the next morning, Sherlock was gone. There was a note with Sherlock's familiar scrawl lying on his kitchen table. Lestrade sighed and gently folded the message, tucking it in the breast pocket of his hole-riddled jacket. Sherlock had thanked him for his hospitality and wished him the best in surviving amongst the shattered remains of a once great city. "Find John, Sherlock, and bring him home. Good luck, Holmes. I wish you well."

Bin fires were lit along the side of the road and rats three times their normal size scavenged around the area for scraps. But otherwise, the place was deserted. Sherlock stumbled over a large chunk of concrete and tripped, rolling over his head onto his back. He groaned when the barrel of John's revolver dug painfully into his lower back. Perhaps hiding his gun in the waist band of his jeans wasn't such a good idea. With his toes tingling from his back pain, he decided to wait a moment before he started moving again. Hands scraping painfully on the rubble covered road, Sherlock reached behind him and dug out his weapon from under his back with a grateful sigh of relief.

As he lay on the floor, waiting for the pain to pass, his ears picked up the sound of small feet scrabbling over dirt and rubble. At a nudge of something against his foot Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Gnawing at the heavy boots on his feet was the largest rat he had ever seen. It was several times bigger than even the largest rat he had seen since the bombs fell. With a short cry, Sherlock aimed his gun and began firing. The first five chambers had been emptied during an encounter with some looters who had taken it upon themselves to try and steal the few possessions Sherlock had on him at the time.

Checking for the last bullet he knew was in the gun, Sherlock spun the barrel to the loaded chamber. Just as he aimed and was about to pull the trigger, there was the sound of a rifle firing from his right. The large rat gave a shrill squeal as it was flung through the air, away from Sherlock – still prostrate on the ground, and its blood splattered across the rubble strewn road.

Giving a quiet cry of relief, heart pounding painfully against his ribcage, Sherlock let his head come to rest on the floor again. Just as his heartbeat was starting to slow once more, he heard the cocking of a rifle right beside his head.

"Get up." Came a short, gruff command.

"What?" Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking against the blinding sun and trying to see the person above him through the silhouette.

"I said get up; unless you want to join your buddy over there." It wasn't a question, this guy meant business. The gun pointed to his left, and Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the still twitching remains of the beastly rat from moments ago. Swallowing his pride, Sherlock dragged himself to his feet, back twinging painfully as he did so. "Start walking." With a rifle shoved against his spine, there was little Sherlock could do to refuse.

The man whose face he had yet to see led Sherlock down a maze of alleys; there was at lease fifty people huddled around bin fires or in small groups. Right at the back of the longest alley three people sat, talking quietly amongst themselves.

"I brought him in, Ella. He was going to get bitten by a Rad Rat. He doesn't seem dangerous," Some part of Sherlock found that slightly insulting "but you can never know these days; he could be a Revenger."

Sherlock had had enough of being spoken about when he was standing right there.

"Okay, hello. Don't mind me, but I have no idea what you're talking about. Now, what the Hell is a Rad Rat, and what is a Revenger?" Sherlock cut in, voice slightly raised to show that he wanted to know what was going on and they were going to tell him. One of the three people sat in the shadows at the end of the alley stepped forward and her face was illuminated by one of the nearby fires. The old lady regarded Sherlock with a curious eye.

"He can't be a Revenger. Look at what he's wearing." Sherlock looked down at his torn jacket, dirty red dress shirt and jeans ripped at the knees.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing and what is a Revenger?" He demanded again.

The old lady looked at the two people still shrouded in shadow behind her and finally spoke directly to Sherlock. "A Rad Rat was just a normal city rat that was mutated by the radiation from the bombs. The Revengers are a gang who roam around here. They'll shoot you on sight unless you have something worthwhile you can give them. Even then, they'll probably still shoot you."

"Sounds fair." Sherlock remarked under his breath. "So why the need to shove a gun in my back and march me here?"

"You could have been a Revenger." The old lady said, shrugging her shoulders.

"What would you have done if I was a Revenger?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"Shot you." Sherlock frowned at Ella.

"Then you're just as bad as them."

A young man stood and entered the light; the right sight of his face looked burned and mangled. He was obviously caught in an explosion and the wound was still healing. "We have people to protect! Not everyone is on a suicide mission; walking the streets by themselves!"

"That doesn't mean you can just shoot people!"

"The less Revengers there are, the better." Ella said, her quiet voice holding more power than if she were to shout. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Fine. I'm obviously not a Revenger, can I please leave now? I have to find somebody."

The third person hidden in the shadows finally revealed themselves. A young girl, no older than eleven or twelve, stepped up to Sherlock and looked up at him with large grey eyes.

"Who're you looking for?" She asked, her voice quiet and far too innocent sounding from someone living on the streets after the end of the world.

"My friend – he left to find his family. I haven't seen him since."

"He's probably dead." The old lady, Ella, muttered as she returned to her seat in the shadows. "You should consider turning around and going home, son. If raiders, Revengers, Rad Rats or any other crazies that roam the streets haven't gotten to him, radiation, hunger or despair will. No one can survive alone."

Sherlock cast a cold, calculating eye at the man with the injured face as he sneered at Sherlock.

"Our people are cold, hungry, scared and injured. We have a duty to look after them." The man said. Sherlock pulled his shoulders to their full height, feeling more like his superior self for the first time since all this began.

"As I was _marched_ here at gun point, I noticed several of your 'hopeless' people with stashes of preserved food and weapons. A couple of those 'hopeless' people also seemed to be wearing lots of jewellery. I think one of them even had a radio!" Sherlock took a step forward, but was reminded about the gun in his back. He didn't move, just glared at the disfigured man in front of him. "Who is really worse off; you pathetic people hiding back here with your veritable 'riches', or those few scavengers who actually have nothing and are truly scared?" From the darkness, Ella's gravelly voice commanded him.

"Take yourself and leave, Stranger, before we dispose of you like we do the Revengers." Sherlock clenched his fists but remained silent. "Lead him out, Josef." As Sherlock was escorted away he heard the scarred man comment to Ella and the little girl.

"We should have left him to that Rad Rat. One bite and he'd have died of radiation sickness in no less than a day."

The detective stumbled slightly as his guard shoved him out of the entrance of the alley. "Better be on your way, the rain is coming." Josef cocked his gun menacingly and took up a defensive position.

Tucking his collar against the warm, irradiated wind, Sherlock continued down the road. He slipped a few more bullets into the empty chambers of his gun, and kept an eye out for Revengers or any more of those Rad Rats or mutated creatures. _If rats have mutated, what else could have?_

Setting his eyes forward he continued his journey across the remains of his beloved city. "I'm coming to find you, John. Just please still be alive when I do."

**Reviews would be nice – it'd also be a good incentive to keep me going. Oh, and if you have any ideas or constructive criticism, that would be really helpful too. :D**


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